For All Time

But wait!
Why ruin a whole page
when all we know for sure
would fit on a scrap?

The air is heavy
with remorse for what they do.
The pond gropes its way to spring;
the words are half-melted.

Wind enters with a roar,
sweeping across the land
until even the oaks
think the storm was their idea.

Wings are for birds
and the very blest.
Most of us shuffle
restless and unsure

for a clear day
and maybe a glimpse
of forever.


Roses beneath a Picasso

This hidden hunger
is my taste for you,

Your voice
rich and sweet,
somewhat sad
in a moment unaware,

How busy you are,
Your tiredness
permeates my bones.

As I lock the day away
at sunset,
ruby fingered rain
taps a melancholy song
on my window,

Twilight falls in whispers,
Come, let’s dream.


Snow covered world, the print of man’s boot lives
just for a minute… Winter is not done.

Steam whistle memories
swirl in breath clouds… trains in the night,
……………………………………….shift changes.

The mills, now closed,
have no need for signals that say go home.
……………………………….Everyone has gone.

The train rails are rusted and uprooted.
Ballast and blanket and the subsoil beneath them
bed forever in stone
…………………………the tracks of something extinct.

The Library Next Door

bardessdmdenton - author- artist

Books were Rose’s secrets. Reading was an easy distraction, friend to her curiosity and the only thing she was sure she wanted to do. When she entered the library next door, what was real and imaginary became indistinguishable, and she grew ready to reveal the future of her relationship with the written word.

My illustratedAll Things That Matter Press Kindle-short, The Library Next Door, is now available! Only $1.99 to download. (£1.25 on

ATTMP Scroll Cover

Find it on

Here’s a little teaser:

Rose preferred private reading. It was an escape from her sisters’ bickering and her mother’s worries, achieved without purpose and self-consciousness; encouraging all the things she had been told to avoid like hunching her shoulders, crossing her legs, crooking her neck and straining her eyes.

Less clothing and her hair loose or in a braid improved the experience, so reading in bed was ideal, especially with…

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Aspects of the Rising Moon

With bold frivolity
you tease the windows
of this room.

You shimmer magic
on my quiet sill
but morning comes

and you hide yourself away.
King of night skies,
you are noted for shenanigan.

Neither symbolist nor mystic,
a Puckish trickster
you agile juggler,

You fill my dreams with lore.
My window waits each night
for your encore.